Can You Ever Forgive Me?

From: oshurjo_sporsha@gmail.com

To: bouthakorani@gmail.com

Date: 25 March 2022, 03:17 am

Subject: What Happened

An impregnable fortress. Your mind is an impregnable fortress guarded by the three-headed beast that you have gone to such pains to train to be a vicious killer.

No, killer is perhaps ill-used here. To kill would be akin to mercy to her. A dancer is what she is. What a beautifully cruel dance it is too. One head to draw in the unassuming admirer with her irresistible allure, another to trap the prey in by weaving tapestries with carefully crafted motions and words. A third as poisonous as it is lovely – lying in wait to strike them at their weakest.

But it is not momentary, crushing agony followed by perpetual calm that she offers through her move. She picks at your skin, her claws dig into the supple flesh of your body, and she burrows into your innocence and leaves you bleeding on the floor for the scavengers to feed on. All who attempt to even slightly peek into you have no choice but to fall at her feet. They prostrate themselves on the floor stained with their own blood and beg and beg and beg to be spared before this monster of your psyche.

No crusader, not one as gallant as Lionheart or one as skilled as Saladin, will ever climb atop the towers of this fortress. None will march their triumphant forces through wide open gates into your embrace. And I realised yesterday how utterly unqualified I am to even try.

From: bouthakorani@gmail.com

To: oshurjo_sporsha@gmail.com

Date: 25 March 2022, 05:55 am

Subject: Re: What Happened

You remember the day at that old CD shop? The dust on the rusting shelves, the drowsy shopkeeper and the whirring of the fan. Whispered words and stolen snickers. My eyes flitting from you to the worn CD cases and back again. With your hair in a loose braid and your shari draped around you in an effortlessly elegant manner, you looked so beautiful and untouchable The hundred in my pocket felt heavy and The Queen is Dead was calling. With my sweat-covered shirt sticking to my back and my mind going on overdrive thinking about you and Morrissey and you singing Morrissey, I could do little else other than stomp my feet and whine. Even if one was to scorch me with a red-hot iron till I was reduced to ashes and smoke, I would not be able to forget your breezy laughter and playful words, "God, are you dense."

I don't know why I am remembering this right now. Perhaps because it was the first time I understood what I could get. And what I could lose.

I AM impossibly dense. And I don't know if you noticed but I can't explain myself for the life of me. But what I am saying is, what I did is, without a speck of doubt or dissension, beyond forgiveness. But I don't have enough self-control to stop myself from asking you.

Can you ever forgive me?

From: oshurjo_sporsha@gmail.com
To: bouthakorani@gmail.com
Date: 25 March 2022, 03:17 am
Subject: What Happened
I am afraid not, honey.

Zaima is a fake poet with a serious problem against anything that resembles seriousness. Send her your sympathies at zaima2004adrita@gmail.com